I stare at the screen for a long moment, my reflection ghostly in the phone's surface. The bathroom is quiet except for the distant buzz of tattoo machines and the muffled music from the main floor. Valentine's decorations dangle from the ceiling here too—paper hearts that suddenly seem mocking.
The clock is ticking. Like I don't know that. Like I haven't been counting the days until Valentine's Day, until our arrangement officially ends, until I have to face whatever comes next.
But here's the thing they don't understand—the thing my family has never understood, because they've never seen me as anything more than property to be traded.
I'm not the same Omega who ran scared in the night.
I delete the message with a firm swipe of my thumb. Watch it disappear into digital oblivion. No hesitation. No second thoughts.
I'm not going back to those fuckers. Not now. Not ever. They can send all the threatening messages they want. They can hire more bounty hunters. They can show up on my doorstep with legal documents and family obligations and everything they think gives them power over me.
It won't matter. Because I have something now that I've never had before. I have people worth fighting for. I have a pack that sees me as more than a commodity. I have three Alphas who are getting matching tattoos with me because they wanted to, not because it benefited them somehow.
I look at my reflection in the bathroom mirror—really look, past the smudged eyeliner and the windswept hair and the exhaustion that never quite fades. What I see surprises me.
I see someone who looks happy. Someone who looks like she might actually be finding her place in the world. Someone who's starting to believe that maybe, just maybe, she deserves good things.
That's worth fighting for. That's worth risking everything for.
I pocket my phone and take a steadying breath. Outside this bathroom, Tank is waiting in the back room with a promised reward. Outside this building, my Alphas are scattered across Oakridge Hollow—Elias at the firehouse, Julian probably reviewing proofs from his shoot, all of them carrying pieces of my heart I didn't even know I'd given away.
And somewhere out there, my past is lurking. Waiting. Planning.
Let them plan. Let them scheme. Let them think they can drag me back to the life I escaped.
I'm done running. I'm done hiding. I'm done letting fear make my decisions for me.
I check my wrist one more time—the plastic wrap crinkling as I move, the fresh ink throbbing beneath—and smile. Three hearts. A butterfly. A crown.
Freedom. Sovereignty. Being the queen of my own story.
I push open the bathroom door and head toward the back room, toward Tank, toward whatever reward is waiting for me.My phone stays silent in my pocket. My past stays firmly behind me.
This fake relationship is becoming something real. I can feel it in every tender moment, every protective gesture, every time one of them looks at me like I'm something precious. And I want to fight for it. I want to see where this goes. I want to stop being so afraid of wanting things that I never let myself have them.
I want to fight for... this fake relationship that could potentially become real.
CHAPTER 27
Ink And Impatience
~TANK~
The back room of Hollow Ink hums with a subdued energy, like a hidden chamber where secrets get etched into skin and forgotten regrets find new life as art.
Dim track lighting casts elongated shadows across the walls, which are plastered with faded sketches—dragons coiling around swords, abstract mandalas blooming like ink spills, and a few risqué pieces that make me smirk every time I glance their way. The air carries that sharp bite of antiseptic mingled with the metallic tang of fresh ink, undercut by the faint, earthy whiff of leather from the adjustable tattoo chair I'm lounging in.
It's not one of those sterile clinics; this place has soul, worn into the scuffed concrete floor and the mismatched stools scattered around like afterthoughts. Through the thin door, the muffled buzz of tattoo guns vibrates from the main floor, punctuated by low conversations and the occasional burst of laughter from clients braving their first needle.
I'm sprawled back in the chair, legs kicked wide, arms draped over the rests like I own the damn place. Which I don't, but afterthe number of sessions I've clocked here with Jax, the owner, it might as well be an extension of my cabin. My boots tap idly against the floor, the rhythm syncing with the distant thrum of machines. I shift, the leather creaking under my weight, and let my head tip back against the padded rest. We've been dancing around this tattoo idea since she spilled that list of hers during game night—matching ink, one of those "unhinged" whims she jotted down in a haze of late-night boldness. Elias jumped on it first, but I claimed dibs for today. Something small, symbolic. The door clicks open, a sliver of brighter light slicing in from the main room before it snicks shut again. There she is: Rosemarie, shuffling in with that deceptive softness, her movements unhurried, almost shy under the imagined scrutiny of the parlor's crowd. From the outside, she'd look like any other client—dark hair cascading in loose waves that frame her face, hazel eyes downcast just enough to blend into the background, her outfit simple but hugging her curves in ways that scream understated allure. High-waisted jeans that cinch her waist, a cropped sweater revealing a teasing strip of midriff, and those boots that add a subtle edge. But I know better. That quiet shell cracks open when she's in her element, and right now, with the door closed and just us in this cocoon of ink and intimacy, I see the shift already brewing.
She pauses, leaning back against the door for a beat, her gaze lifting to meet mine. And there it is—that naughty smirk, curling her lips like she's harboring a delicious secret. It mirrors right back on my face, pulling my mouth into a grin that's equal parts challenge and invitation.
"Are you excited?" I ask, my voice low, gravelly from the relaxed haze I've sunk into.
She giggles, the sound light and bubbling, like champagne fizzing over the rim of a glass. Pushing off the door, she saunters closer, her hips swaying with that effortless confidence sheunleashes when the world's eyes aren't prying. "This feels a tad illegal to do in a tattoo parlor that's clearly packed." Her eyes dart to the door, as if imagining the bustle beyond, then back to me, sparkling with mischief.
I chuckle, the rumble vibrating deep in my chest as I spread my legs a fraction wider, leaning back further into the chair. The motion draws her gaze down my torso, and I don't miss the way she drinks me in—the taut lines of muscle, the ink already mapping my skin like a roadmap of my history. *God, the way she looks at me... like I'm something she wants to devour and savor all at once. Makes a man feel invincible.*
